Just Dropping In
by Evildevilangel
Summary: A future!Peterfuture!mohinder fic. Implied nathanmohinder and other pairings if you want. Rated M for language, some violence, and some sexual situations. Reviews are love.


**Don't own any of it. Spoilers for Five Years Gone. **

**For Remy.**

Mohinder massaged his temples and stared down at the open files smeared across his desk. The words "mass extinction" seemed branded on his eyelids. He hadn't meant it like _that._ It had been an oversight, a fanciful exaggeration meant to impress Nathan, an academic slip of the tongue. And to really impress Nathan. Because he needed a job. Mohinder was very in touch with his inner self and he was no Himmler. Mass murder was simply not in his blood.

Convinced and relieved, he opened his eyes. And was immediately confronted with icy blue irises.

"Boo."

Next thing Mohinder knew, he was on the floor, scuttling crab-style as fast as he could away from his desk. "P-P-Peter," he stuttered. "What are you doing here?"

Peter picked up one of the metallic desk toys Mohinder felt obligated to keep in plain sight. "Just thought I'd drop in on an old friend," he said, his deep voice in its eternal eerie calm. "What's the latest news?"

"Turn on a television," snapped Mohinder as he stood up and dusted off his dress shirt. "You shouldn't even be here! You're a terrorist!"

Peter gave him a hard smirk. Everything about him had hardened since New York. "I was under the impression terrorists went places they shouldn't. That's what scares people." Mohinder felt a hand brush through his hair despite the fact Peter was across the room and the scientist's arms were firmly crossed over his chest. "People with cushy government jobs who think they have nothing to fear." The invisible hand grabbed the black curls and twisted roughly. Mohinder instinctively closed his eyes as his mouth opened slightly. "How's _Nathan_?" Peter growled his brother's name as Mohinder was thrown to the ground.

The scientist stayed down and tried to calculate the odds of him reaching the gun in his desk. "He's the President," he said softly. "He works hard." Mohinder finally looked up. "And he's trying to do what's best." He leapt up and found himself slammed against the back wall, another invisible hand at his throat.

"Don't spend much time around Parkman anymore, do you?" asked Peter, his face softening for an instant before he turned the nearby desk, seemingly without a thought. "You too busy playing loyal public servant?" He placed a red-hot hand on the drawer that held the only weapon in the room as the metal welded together. "Security camera thinks you're still at your desk, by the way," he said, eyes focused on his old friend, before releasing the man. Mohinder rubbed a hand over his dark throat even though Peter had made no attempt to strangle him. That wasn't the empath's style anyway. "Or do bad guys not turn you on anymore?" Genuine amusement flickered on his scarred face and Mohinder wished it could stay there until his bangs grew back and the scar faded.

"There are no 'good guys' and 'bad guys' anymore," he said after a minute, once more an indignant professor stating an obvious fact. "You know that."

"Bullshit," spat Peter as he reached into the desk for the bottle of scotch that was always in the bottom-left drawer. _Remember Annapolis? _he asked silently as he unscrewed the bottle.

Mohinder nodded. He'd never forget that day. Nathan had been discussing his funding for the incoming year when one of Matt's underlings had brought news of another "sighting." A ten year-old on a class field trip to the zoo had managed to call an escaped tiger off one of her classmates. With her mind. Matt's team had deemed her a security risk. The FBI had extracted her from her elementary school the next day. The picture in the file the officer handed Nathan reminded Mohinder of sweet little Molly. When he said so, Nathan gave him permission to "reason with" the Annapolis police. He'd arrived the same time Peter had.

Apparently one of Peter's contacts had picked up the girl's story before it was banned from the media. Peter had taken him inside to the concrete cell where they'd been holding her – cold, hungry, and terrified. Mohinder had convinced Peter to wait, invisible, while he spoke with the proper authorities. The sallow police chief with stiff, too-thin lips had signed the girl's execution papers as Mohinder stood, yelling, in his office.

Peter had realized what was happening when fifteen homeland security officers had come barreling down the hall. He'd fended them off, but a stray bullet had struck the girl in the crossfire. Annabelle Wilson. Minutes later, every person in the station had put a bullet through his or her head in exactly the same place. Every person, except Mohinder and Peter, who had taken the Indian by the hand and led him back to his car. And then disappeared again.

"Why?" choked Mohinder as the memory subsided. He still kept a copy of Annabelle's underground obituary in his desk. He leaned against the wall as Peter calmly drank the scotch.

"Because," replied Peter, fixing his eyes on the scientist, "you're a good person."

_So are you_, Mohinder opened his mouth to say, but then Peter's lips were on his. Real lips, chapped and soft, and real hands tangled in his hair. He'd heard the thought.

He kissed back, but Peter moved on to his ear and down his neck, teeth scraping and nipping. "Peter," he protested, hands on the other man's shoulders. He nearly moaned as Peter lifted his head.

"What?" he asked harshly, running his hand down Mohinder's slim body and grinning when the scientist's breath hitched.

"Your eyes," he said simply as he dug his nails into Peter's shoulders when the other man's hand found skin.

"You like them?" he asked quietly, leaning in to lightly bite Mohinder's earlobe as he traced tiny circles on the other man's hips. "I want you to always know exactly who you're looking at."


End file.
